Mr Monk was My Landlord
by SJO
Summary: A college student seeks friendship from Monk and writes it all down in her blog. It's written in blog format, with a few tapes from Dr. Kroger's sessions thrown in.
1. Part I

Mr. Monk was My Landlord

A "Monk" Fanfic by SJO

Note: USA and NBC own "Monk," not me. I think this isn't against the rules. I didn't see anything that said "no diary-type entries are allowed." This is written like a diary. Technically, it's a blog, an online diary. It's still advancing a story, so it's not non-story material. And though I'm a big fan of "Monk," I've only been watching it for a short time. I might get some details wrong, so please be forgiving.

* * *

RareSequoia

Bio: I'm a 20-something-year-old female college student from California. I'm an English major, but I do NOT want to be a teacher! (That's probably my biggest pet peeve, people immediately assuming that I want to teach.) Actually, I want to be a writer. I know, I got to do something else besides that before I become world-famous. I haven't decided what that will be yet. I might be a teacher. I just don't know. Anyway, I live with my dad and my pet rabbit. Well, that's home base. I return like every other weekend to replenish supplies, recharge batteries, that sort of thing. I actually live in a dorm on campus with my roommate Joy. I work in the library. I like cartoons, court shows, game shows, music videos, stuff like that. Probably my favorite show is "The Simpsons." And next to my love of literature, I have a fascination with redwoods. (Hence the screen name.) Yeah, I'm in heaven up here in the bay area. I am a little lonely though. Making friends is difficult for me, but I'll explain why later. I guess I'll just say that I'm looking for one particular kind of person, a very rare kind.

* * *

October 15, 10:28 P.M.

Yawn

Mood: Exhausted

I've been working on my paper for American Short Fiction all day. It's printed and ready to go. I'm hoping this is a unique take on "Young Goodman Brown." Maybe my teacher will like it.

Joy's still not back from her social club initiation. I had no idea those things take so long.

Well, not much else to say.

* * *

October 16, 10:10 P.M.

You're Not Going to Believe This

Mood: Anxious

Man, what a day! See, I woke up, and I was surprised that Joy still wasn't back. Still, I wasn't too bothered. I got dressed, made my bed, washed my face, and got ready to go down for breakfast, and when I opened the door, there was a huge group of cops standing outside! They told me that Joy was murdered. I couldn't believe it. They didn't agree about how she died. Most of them said she was shot, but one guy said she suffocated. I'll tell you more about him later.

Anyhow, the police wanted to ask me some questions. So they put me down in this room. This guy with a mustache did much of the talking. He had a gruff voice. He gave me the creeps. And there was a tall guy with big eyes. He was taking notes. There was one woman who looked like she'd rather be somewhere else. And that guy who kept insisting that Joy suffocated was staring at me so creepily. It was like he was studying me. He was so intimidating! I didn't know a thing, but it seemed that everyone thought that I had something to do with this. And I kept thinking about my paper that was due in just a few minutes, but they wouldn't let me go! My brain just felt like it was going to explode!

And then, with perfect timing, the fire alarm went off. There was an alarm in that very room. I covered my ears and went straight for the door, but it was locked! I had a scene right there. I couldn't stop it. I felt like a two-year-old. But then, somebody unlocked the door and pushed me out. He spoke to me gently as soon as we were far away from the building and helped calmed me down. When I came to my senses, I realized it was that guy who was staring at me. I've been through a lot of fire drills and bells before, and nobody else has understood the pain and the fear I experience every time. I was so amazed.

He walked me to class when this whole ordeal was over. He explained that he had several phobias himself, and when he saw how afraid I was he could almost feel my fear. Gives a new meaning to "The only thing we have to fear itself," huh? He told me he didn't think I killed Joy. (He maybe the only one.) Yet he still thinks I could offer some information that might help the case. He says he plans to come back later. Great, more questions. I told them everything I knew! Why doesn't anybody understand that? I don't know if this guy's very good. He did figure out without my telling him somehow that I was an English major, but he also assumed that I wanted to teach.

On a positive note, I turned in my paper. It wasn't counted late. I feel good about it.

* * *

October 18, 9:57 P.M.

Guess Who Showed Up Again?

Mood: Curious

I had almost forgotten about what happened two days ago (well, I haven't forgotten that Joy is gone; I guess I'm in denial about that). But today, right after I was getting out of lunch, that guy came looking for me again. The only woman who was there the first time was with him too. She was nice. When I was panicking over the fire alarm, she gave me a cup of water which helped calm me a little. Her name's Natalie (rather juvenile name for a woman, isn't it?). I was surprised to find out that she wasn't really a cop. She worked for that guy as his assistant. Oh, and his name is Mr. Monk. (I thought about telling him that I had one of his Gregorian Chant CDs, but he's probably heard that one enough.) It was a lot more comfortable than last time. Natalie wanted to see the campus (she told me that maybe one day her daughter Julie might go there), and along the way Mr. Monk asked me questions about Joy. They didn't know that she was being initiated into a sorority. He seemed very interested in that information, anyway. He asked me a lot of questions about that particular club, and I told him that he was talking to the wrong person. I don't even like social clubs.

But this was when I really knew he was cool. We were passing by this kiosk, and he suddenly stopped, excused himself, ran to the kiosk, and started straightening the flyers. Watching him work made my fingertips itch. I even muttered to myself, "Dude, don't tempt me." Natalie heard me, and she apologized for his behavior. "It's just a thing he does," she said. So, it sounds like he was stimming! Well, if he could stim, I could stim. I joined him at the kiosk and offered my help. He gave me an awkward look and said he didn't need help. I told him he did; he had short fingernails. I went to the adjacent side and started ripping off loose pieces of Scotch tape. I also tore out old staples and picked off spare sticky tack and played with that a little. I moved some of the flyers around too, but I couldn't make them as neat as he could. I guess I don't have that gift. I moved around some of the loose push pins like he did, but instead of putting them in rows, I made them into a smiley face, a heart, and a message "Hi." He looked impressed at my work. Then he handed me a moist towlette. "You don't know what's underneath those pieces of tape," he said. He was probably right. I wiped my hands clean, and then I got out my watermelon-scented hand sanitizer just to make sure.

When he had all of the information he needed, Mr. Monk began to leave. But I asked him first if I could keep in touch with him. He's the first person I met who isn't afraid to stim in public like that. Maybe he's not NT. I asked for his e-mail, but he told me that he didn't get along very well with computers. But he gave me his card, rather reluctantly. I hope I'll hear from him soon.

10:05 P.M.

Off the Hook!

Mood: Relieved

Music: "Hallelujah Chorus"

I just a call from the captain of the San Francisco police department. I recognized his voice. He was the guy with the mustache that lead the investigation. He said the case is closed, and I'm no longer a suspect! He told me who really killed Joy, but I didn't know them. I asked him about my new friend, and he just said in a huff that Mr. Monk did solve the case, like always. Like always? Wow, he must be pretty good. And like he said, she was suffocated before she was shot. Huh, I wonder why they didn't catch it?

* * *

Video Tape AM0324 (excerpt, edited to protect anonymity)

Dr. Charles Kroger

9:00 A.M. October 20, 20–

Adrian seemed rather worried this weekthat is more worried than usual. I tried to put him at ease by discussing some small talk, asking him how Natalie is, etc. He was very reluctant to talk, so I decided here to discuss a recent case that got considerable media attention, dealing with the murder of a college student:

"So, I saw on the news that you helped solve that (name of school deleted) University case."

"Yeah."

"How'd that go?"

"It was . . ." (Adrian paused and looked away) "different."

"Different? How?"

Adrian did not immediately answer but fidgeted in his chair and looked in the window. I decided to pose another question.

"I, I hear that, that there was a discrepancy about how she died."

At this, Adrian seemed to become more himself. "Yes. I knew when I first saw her body that she had been suffocated. I thought it was obvious. But she had a huge bullet wound in her chest, and nearly everyone assumed that she died as a result of the shot."

"That's not like the captain to neglect something like that."

"Yeah, I still don't understand it. Of course, my assessment was confirmed, and I learned from her roommate that the victim was in the middle of a sorority hazing. We did some checking around and found out there was a pillow fight that went horrible awry. They tried to cover their tracks and make it look like she was gunned down."

"Yes, I know about that. That's terribly tragic. But what is it that is so different?"

Adrian sighed, "It's the roommate. Her name is Sue (last name deleted). She's a senior, an English major. She just . . . she's just . . . she's, she's very familiar to me."

"You think you've met her before?"

"No, I mean that she's a lot like me. It's scary."

"In what way?"

"Well, when we first questioned her, I could tell that she was terrified."

"Well, anybody who was being accused of murder–"

"Yeah, I know, but it was beyond that. She never looked the captain in the eyes. He thought she was hiding something, and maybe she was lying. But I could just tell, she was trying very hard and, she, she just couldn't do it. And then they were testing the fire alarms and this fire alarm went off. She broke down and panicked. I helped her get out of the building and calmed her down. I talked to her again the other day. Natalie wanted to see the campus, so we took a walk. On the way, we passed this billboard column thing, and I had to straighten it. I didn't think much of it. That's what I always do, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, Sue did something I don't recall anybody ever doing."

"What?"

"She helped me!"

"Did she?"

"Yeah. She took two sides, and I took two. She did pretty good. And while we were working, she told me that she was proud of me. She said stuff like this always bugged her, but she was always discouraged from doing this kind of thing because it was, quote-unquote, 'socially unacceptable.'"

"Well, let's be honest. It is."

"Oh, come on, Dr. Kroger. I'm trying to reach out to people here."

"I know. I understand."

"But at any rate, she was doing the same thing with the same kind of motive. So it seems that she also has something wrong with her."

"Well, it doesn't automatically mean she's obsessive compulsive."

"But she has obsessive compulsive behavior. Except she called it something different. She called it a . . . stim."

"A stem?"

"No, no, 'stim.' She has a hint of a southern accent. You could tell that was an 'I.' Do you know what that means?"

"Hmm, I feel like I've heard it before." (I think about it for a minute) "Oh yeah! It-it-it's shorthand for 'self-stimulating behavior.' It means repetitive motor movement. Um, I'm not sure if, if, if it's exactly like what you do, but it's close."

"Where would she get a term like that?"

I pause again. "I'm not sure. I'll recheck my notes. So did anything else along this line happen?"

"Well, she was evidently intrigued that we had that in common. She asked if she talk to me from time to time."

"Really?"

Adrian nods, "She wants my advice. It's almost like she's asking me to be you. What's it like to be you?"

"Adrian, I don't think you need to think about it that way."

"Well, she is taking great measures. She told me when I first met her that she was very uncomfortable talking on the phone. And two days ago, she asked me for my phone number."

"Did she?"

"Yes. She asked for my e-mail first, but of course, I couldn't–"

"Yeah, of course."

"So, she sounds pretty serious about this, you know, with facing something that she doesn't find particularly comfortable."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Should I . . . charge her?"

"What?"

"For my advice. I mean, that's my job, isn't it? I'm a private consultant!"

"I don't think she's looking for a consultant, a therapist, or even just an advisor. She's looking for a friend, Adrian. You can't put a price on friendship."

"You really think . . ."

"Sure."

"Is that smart? I mean, most people who considered themselves my friend . . . well, it usually doesn't end up well."

"What about me?"

"You're my therapist."

"I've been your therapist for almost ten years now. But I'm also your friend. I think I am. Don't you?"

"I guess so."

"Wh-why don't you call Sue, maybe tonight? You can just ask her yourself what she needs."

Adrian paused and looked away again, then responded, "All right, I will."

I am not exactly sure what vexes Adrian so much about Sue, but I will be very interested to hear more about this new relationship

(End tape AM0324)

* * *

October 20, 9:48 P. M.

It Worked!

Mood: Friendly

We're coming along in Modern Poetry. We're about to cover Robert Frost, my favorite! William Butler Yates was cool too, though.

You know, Mr. Monk acted very apprehensive when I asked him for a way to contact him. I was afraid he wouldn't want much more to do with me anymore. But around 7:00 tonight, he called me! He wanted to know what I was expecting when I asked him for advice. I told him that I was different from everybody else, and I could tell that he was too. I said everybody else was so NT. He didn't know what that meant! He thought I said "empty." I told him that it meant "neurologically typical." Then he seemed to catch on. I just wanted to know what it's like to live his life, just so I can take some confidence in knowing that I'm not alone. He told me he liked that. We talked for about an hour. He has a pretty exciting life! He told me some of his recent adventures. It's almost like reading O. Henry. You don't know what to expect. I told him about some of the things I've been studying. It wasn't nearly as interesting as his life, but he seemed to think it was interesting anyway. He made some observations I hadn't considered before, and I actually told him some things he didn't think of.

It ended kinda funny. I said something really off the wall. I think I said, "Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat, right?" And he was stone quiet. I tried to prompt a response, and then suddenly he whispered, "More than one way to . . . I got it! I know how he did it!" Then he asked me if he could call me back. I said, "Hey, did I just help you solve a case?" And he said, "I think so." Cool! I rock!

Maybe this is the beginning of a good friendship. I hope so.


	2. Part II

November 5, 9:52 P.M.

What am I doing on this bridge?

Mood: Frazzled

I had a dream last night. My mind really liked this dream. It went through this dream like three or four times in the same night, and now I can't stop thinking about it. This is not normal for me. I never remember my dreams. I don't know if dreams really ever "mean" anything. I mean, it's just a bunch of random images the brain puts together and tries to make them make sense. But this one . . . man, I just don't know. Maybe my mind is trying to tell me something.

So it goes like this. I'm hiking in this redwood forest that I've known ever since I was a little girl. I recognized the trees, the layout, the landmarks. It's very foggy. I can barely see my hand in front of my face. I don't know where I'm going or why I'm going; I just know I have to get through the forest. Then suddenly the forest ended. There was a cliff there that wasn't there before, and the only thing there was a swinging bridge. I hate those kinds of bridges! They're so rickety and unstable. They creak, sway, and they just don't feel safe! Plus, every time they are shown on a TV show or a movie, they always break. Always! It doesn't inspire a lot of confidence. I couldn't see the other side, but I knew I had to get there, and this was the only way I could see.

So, I started crossing. I just took it one step at a time, very, very slowly. I tried not to make it rock. I held tightly onto the rope that served as a rail. I tried not to look down, only forward. And then, I heard a wail. I thought it was the wind at first. But as I continued to go, it got louder. It didn't sound like the wind. It sounded like a poor soul in pain. So I thought it was a wounded animal. And yet, as I continued, it got even louder. I started to realize it was a person, and he was crying. I pondered who it could be, and I felt a splash of water on my foot. I looked down and saw that water was right underneath me. I was confused. After all, these kinds of bridges are usually built way up high. Why would this bridge be right above the water?

As I got closer to the middle of the bridge, I saw him. He was dangling over the side, looking down into the water. But I couldn't see who it was. I came closer, and I put my hand on his shoulder. He turned to me. It was Mr. Monk! I said, "What's wrong?" He answered by throwing his head back and crying harder. His tears weren't particularly big, but I could see them fall into the sea. I understood. That's why the water was just underneath. He had been crying for so long, it had become that high, and he still hadn't finished crying. But what was wrong?

That didn't matter to me. If I just left him there, he might drown. I forgot about how afraid I was and I almost ran back to the other side. I ran through the forest until I found my home (which was strangely close). Dad opened the door and said, "Hurry! There's not much time!" Maybe I should have wondered how he could have known what was on the bridge, but all I did was nod.

I ran up to my room and started to grab all the stuffed animals off of my bed. I couldn't carry them all, and I knew they wouldn't be enough. There were still more in the closet. I had an idea, but someone beat me to it. I opened the door, and there was Natalie, trash bags in hand. "What are you doing here?" I said.

And she replied, "Well, I don't want him to die either. Now come on!" I put all of the toys in my arms in one of the bags, and she helped me fill up more. Then we ran back out to the bridge, and we tossed out stuffed animals as quickly as we could. Each one absorbed all that water like little sponges, and soon the water returned to its normal level. But we could both still hear Mr. Monk crying. "Here," Natalie said. She put something in my hand and closed it before I could see what it was. "Give this to him. Tell him I'll meet him on the other side."

She started going in the opposite direction, and I called after her, "Why don't you give it to him yourself?"

"I can't!" she replied and left.

So I crossed the bridge again, still rather slow, but maybe a little bolder this time. At least, I thought, if I fell, I'd be landing somewhere soft, soggy, but soft. And I came up to him again, and I held his shoulder again. I offered him the hand with the thing that Natalie gave me and opened it. It was a moist towlette! He took it, wiped his eyes, his nose, his face, and even his hands. I took hand sanitizer and wiped my own hands. Then I took his hand and helped him to his feet. We just looked at each other. His eyes looked so red. Finally, I just said, "Natalie said she'd meet you on the other side."

And he just replied in a very weak whisper, "Thank you."

And he turned, and I watched him cross the bridge. He was hugging the rail and taking it one step at a time, just like I did. The fog was lifting, and when it finally dissipated, I saw that there was another way across–the Golden Gate Bridge. It was to the right of this pathetic bridge that I chose. And I looked over, and I saw everyone I ever knew crossing that bridge–Dad, my peers, my professors, my Bible school teacher, my dentist, my doctor, my Dad's boss, and everybody else. Everybody Mr. Monk knew was there too. I saw Natalie and the police chief with the mustache and the other detectives and policemen. And they saw us too, and they smiled and waved. I was so angry with myself, I wanted to sit down and cry. Why didn't I know that there was another bridge, a safer bridge? What am I doing on this bridge? I looked back down, and I saw Mr. Monk leaning on the rope rail, and he looked just as shocked as I did. He turned to me and looked as if he was about to say something.

And that was it. I either went all the way back to the beginning, or I woke up. But when I was awake, which was unfortunately at 5:00 in the morning, I still mulled the questions over in my mind. Why am I on this bridge? Why is everybody on another bridge? Why is Mr. Monk with me? And why is he crying? I've only known him for a couple of weeks. I still don't know very much about him.

It's got me stumped. I searched on the internet for dream themes. Crossing a bridge is actually a rather common archetype. It usually means transition. I guess I am going through a transition, sort of. I mean, I'm about to graduate. But then again, I'm going right in to pursuing my Master's degree, so it's not much of a transition. I can't think of any other transitions. And I didn't see any difference in the kind of bridges that one crosses.

I want to tell Mr. Monk about, of course. He's a detective; maybe he can figure it out. I don't want to tell him about it on the phone, though. I asked him if he could join me tomorrow morning at the childhood haunt where this all takes place. It will make me feel a bit more comfortable, and maybe I could go through and see if I'm mistaken. Maybe there's a bridge there that I've chosen not to remember.

* * *

November 6, 10:15 A.M.

No Answers Yet

Mood: Curious

I wanted to write about this while it was still on my mind. I might forget it otherwise.

Dad and I got there about fifteen minutes early. Mr. Monk was right on time. Natalie was with him. That surprised me. I thought she was his assistant when he's doing a case. I asked her why she was there, and she said, "Well, somebody had to drive him here." (He doesn't drive either? And he's much older than I am. Maybe I shouldn't feel so ashamed.) I wish I knew she was coming. I got Mr. Monk some coffee, and I didn't have enough for everybody. She said it was ok; she's not a coffee drinker. I was kinda disappointed because I wanted to talk to Mr. Monk privately. But that happened to work out. I mentioned that this was personal, and she said that was ok too. She just wanted to take a walk, and she got her daughter's headphones to listen to music.

Mr. Monk was very worried. He first wanted to know how high we were going. I told him it was rather level. He asked me if there was an overlook. I told him not unless my memory had betrayed me. I guess he doesn't like heights. I told him we weren't going to climb any of these redwoods. He didn't think that was very funny. The whole way through, he looked very uncomfortable. He kept looking around. I tried to make some small talk, but he barely acknowledged me.

I came to the place where I saw the bridge in my dream, and it wasn't there. When I saw that, I started to tell him what was going on. I explained that I had a dream that I can't stop thinking about, and I was wondering if he could help me figure out what it meant. He said, "OK, here's the thing" (he says that a lot), "I'm not very good at abstract thought. I'm more concrete. You know, 'Just the facts, ma'am,' that sort of thing." I told him that was alright; I had trouble with abstract thinking too. He was surprised by this, since I'm an English major. Then I realized that I forgot to tell him that he was in this dream. He was a little more interested when I said that. "It was a nightmare, wasn't it?" he said. I said, "No, no, no. Well, it was frightening, but that wasn't your fault. At least not much."

I found a log and sat on it like a bench. My legs were getting tired. Mr. Monk looked like he didn't even want to go near it, so I let him stand. I told him what happened, and he just listened. He only reacted when I described the bridge. He shuddered and said God's name in fear. I guess he didn't like those bridges either.

After I was done, I asked him what he thought. He was quiet for a little while, but then he said, "I think I know. The bridge is grief. It's personal tragedy." He thought it was because I lost Joy. I told him I knew for a fact that wasn't it. I had to discuss my very atypical approach to death. I didn't find that comfortable at all, and he kept asking me questions about it! Well, I guess he had to; he's a detective after all. But he made me talk about my mother, a subject I do not like to discuss. He explained that he was rather sensitive toward death. He told me that his wife was murdered. That was so sad! I guess he did have a reason to cry.

He asked me what I thought, and I told him what I found out about transitions. He nodded. He paced a couple of times and finally told me that he couldn't figure it out. However, he knew someone who could help–his therapist. Mr. Monk has an appointment with him tomorrow morning. He offered for me to come, but I have an 8:00. But it sounds good. And when we were walking back, he told nobody since his wife told him that they had a dream about him, and he liked how vivid it was. He told me he could tell my imagination was very active. "Sometimes I wish I had more dreams like that," he said.

I couldn't help myself. I said, "What? You don't dream about dwarfs who talk backwards and give you obscure clues?" He didn't think that was funny either. He just told me most of his dreams were about his wife. That's sweet.

* * *

Video Tape AM036 (excerpt)

Dr. Charles Kroger

9:00 A.M. November 7, 20–

In this session, Adrian wished to discuss something unusual. His new friend Sue had a dream that involved Adrian. She asked him to figure out the meaning, but he could not. The dream involved crossing a suspended rope bridge. Sue found Adrian on the bridge, and he was causing the water to rise with his own tears. Sue responded by throwing stuffed animals into the water, causing it to recede. At the end of the dream, Adrian and Sue discover that they could have taken a safer bridge, in fact the Golden Gate Bridge, to get across.

"So, what do you make of it, Doc?"

"Well, it is quite vivid. Remarkable."

"I thought so too."

"Let me ask you a question, Adrian. Why are you asking me about this?"

"I told you. Trudy aside, nobody's had a dream about me before. Not Sharona, not Natalie, not Benjy, not Julie, not the Captain, not . . . you."

"Are you sure?"

After a pause, we both broke into laughter.

"Alright, if they did, they didn't tell me about it."

"I can understand that. It piques your curiosity, right?"

"Yeah."

"Are you bothered? I mean, does it vex you?"

"It . . . it does. It's a little bothering that I don't really have an answer for her. And I know she's bothered by this dream."

"OK. So, so what do you think it means?"

"Well, I don't know. That's why I'm asking you."

"Take a guess."

"I took a guess. I was wrong."

"So what was it?"

"I thought somehow she could sense how I felt about losing Trudy. I never mentioned her to Sue, but I thought she'd just know. And she just lost her roommate. But that wasn't it."

"Why?"

Adrian looked away, and a look of sadness crossed his face. "She . . . she said that she doesn't process death the way other people do. When she was young, she was oversensitive about it. She couldn't go into funeral parlors. She couldn't watch media that addressed death. But then in her adolescence, it hardly affected her at all. And she still doesn't know when or why that perception changed so suddenly. That put things a little more in perspective. One of the reasons the Captain really suspected Sue was that she did not have much of a reaction when she heard about what happened to Joy. Sue told me that when she heard what happened, she felt shocked and a little sad inside. But she didn't feel shocked or sad enough to really express it. And she was more concerned about being accused and turning in a paper on time than she was losing a roommate."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. Since Adrian had experienced such a traumatic loss, he clearly could not relate. "Now, I can tell, that bothers you."

"I just can't get my mind around it. They were friends and fellow students. Joy asked Sue to be her roommate. They weren't just put together at random. I can't understand why she wouldn't feel any sense of loss. She actually told me she felt good for Joy. Sue told me Joy's in a better place now, a place where she didn't have to put up with Sue. I guess that was supposed to be a joke. How could she make light of this?"

"Adrian, I know you went through a hard situation, but you can't expect everyone to look at death the way you do."

"But this isn't human."

"Natalie moved on after her husband died."

"No, she still hurts. I can tell. Sue is not hurt at all. It's almost antisocial, almost criminal-like."

"You don't grieve for every victim in all your cases. You wouldn't be able to function otherwise. Perhaps she wasn't particularly close to Joy."

"Yeah, I thought about that. I asked her if Joy was closer to her, like a sister, would she have reacted differently. Sue said she didn't know, but probably yes. Then I thought about our past conversations. She only talks about her father, never her mother. When I asked her why, she said her mother died in childbirth."

"Giving birth to Sue?"

"It must be. Sue is an only child. And she said, I can't believe this, she said that she never really registered in her mind that her mother actually existed."

"So, uh, did you tell Sue about Trudy?"

"Yes. She said, 'Oh, that's terrible! I'm so sorry. I had no idea.' She sounded genuine enough. And yet, at the same time, it still sounded a bit . . . forced."

It was time to change subjects. "Let's get back to the dream. We've established that it doesn't have to do with death. So, have you had any more thoughts about what it might be?"

Adrian looked rather thoughtful, then blurted out, "Do dreams really ever mean anything? I mean, all it is is the mind taking a bunch of random images and mixing them together."

"I guess I'd take that as a no."

"Yeah."

"What about Sue? Has she thought about what it might have meant?"

"She said she did a search on the internet. It said something about making a big transition. She couldn't think of any major transitions, though."

"Well, isn't she about to graduate?"

"Yes, but she's going for her Master's Degree, so she's not really leaving school."

"Well, I see a transition. She may not have even thought about this. Think about those stuffed animals. What did she do with them?"

"She threw them into the water, and they saved my life."

"What do you think about those?" Adrian didn't answer, so I continued to prod his thinking. "This isn't too hard. Think about stuffed animals and other toys. What are they usually associated with?"

"Children."

"Exactly. And she got rid of them."

"So, in doing that, she's . . . giving up her childhood."

"And that forest. She told you that she knew this forest since she was little. And when she was moving through it, she didn't know where she was going, but she knew she had to get out. She had to move on."

"I see. It's all because she's becoming a responsible adult."

"Exactly."

"But I don't think she's ready for that. The more I talk to her, the more I can tell she wants to hang onto that naivete."

"Maybe that was part of the reason why this dream was so frightening. But there's something else that jumps out at me."

"What is that?"

"She had a definite purpose in her mind, and she abandoned it to help you. What do you think about that?"

"She must think I'm pathetic. I mean, I'm hanging over a dangerous bridge crying my eyes out, something I'd never do in real life."

"I don't think it's as bad as that. I think that she's glad that you are developing a friendship with her. She needs it. I think that she's thinking that it's too much taking and not enough giving. She's grateful for the help that you've given her, and now she wants to do something to help you."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe you can occasionally ask her for advice. You never know when you might need an English major's expertise."

"She did offer to give me any information on redwoods if I ever needed it."

"Well, there you go. That's a start."

"But what about the bridge?"

"What about the bridge?"

"That was probably the part that worried her the most. Why were we the only ones on that bridge? We both hated it. If we knew about it, we would have joined everybody else on the Golden Gate."

"Well, think about Adrian. What do you two have in common? What is it that she sees in you that she has not seen anywhere else, that she admires about you?"

"That I . . . stim."

"That you have a disorder. Do you still think that she has one?"

"Yeah. You're right. I didn't think about that."

"And it makes sense. Everybody 'normal' is on the normal bridge, and the two of you are on a bridge that's a little shakier, a little less stable. All these years she's been on it by herself, and she feels lonely. I guess she thinks you feel lonely too."

"She does. She told me how difficult it is for her to get along with everybody else because they are, as she puts it, NT."

"Neurotypical?"

"So you've heard of that?"

"Of course. It's my field after all. But that reminds me. I looked through some of my notes and checked with a few of my colleagues. 'Stim' is a term commonly used by people associated with, uh . . . the autism spectrum. And so, interestingly enough, is NT."

"So Sue is autistic?"

"It's possible. Maybe she knows someone who is, but judging from what you've told me about her behavior and her emotions, I think she probably has High Functioning Autism or Asperger's Syndrome."

"No wonder. What would that make her? Rain Woman?"

I chuckled, "Of course, without an official assessment, I couldn't say for sure. You know, 'Rain Man' was an atypical case of autism."

"I forget sometimes. Everybody says I'm Rain Man."

"Well, you're rather exceptional. Sue probably doesn't have the level of . . . mental skill that you do."

"Who does?"

"I wouldn't bring this subject up unless Sue chooses to."

"Of course."

(End Tape AM036)

* * *

November 7, 9:43 P.M.

I beat the detective this time!

Mood: Proud

Most of the day, I was still thinking about that dream. I had a new idea of what part of it could mean. Mr. Monk called me this evening, and he told me he talked to his therapist about it. I told Mr. Monk that I had a theory, but was it ok if I ask him a personal question first. He said, "How personal?" I said, "Rather personal. I got a couple of smaller questions first." He agreed. I said, "Do you know what autism is?" He almost gave me the whole spiel from the DSM-IV. I interrupted and said, "Whoa! Just answer yes or no." He said yes. Then I said, "Have you heard of Asperger's Syndrome?" He said he heard of it. Then I asked very carefully, "Do you have AS?"

There was a long pause, and he finally answered, "My diagnosis is obsessive compulsive disorder with numerous phobias. But sometimes I wonder if I might be a little autistic. I mean, I've been compared to Rain Man so much, it's not funny anymore."

I told him that I understood how that felt. I asked if he ever considered getting reevaluated. He said he was due for a psychological examination one of these days. And he said, "So I suppose that's your diagnosis, Asperger's?" I told him it was. That's why I thought I dreamed that we were both on the bridge. The bridge stood for AS, and that's why all the NT people weren't with us. They could see us, they could help us, they could encourage us, but they can never be with us on the bridge. Their minds are all normal, so they'll never know, no much how much they study and observe what we do, what it's really like. And unfortunately, vice versa is also true. And Mr. Monk told me that his therapist said about the same thing. He also told that most of the dream was about my apprehensions of giving up my childhood. I didn't think about that. It sounds about right. I'm not exactly sure I'm ready to live on my own and take care of myself. I guess I need help, and it's really good luck that I found someone who can cross the bridge with me.

I said, "You know, even if you are obsessive compulsive, that doesn't rule AS out. Obsessive compulsive behavior is an earmark of AS. And if you do have it, you'd be in good company. I have a theory that Auguste Dupin and Sherlock Holmes both have AS characteristics."

"Actually, I hope I don't have it," he answered. "See, here's the thing: I'm trying to beat this, whatever it is, to get back on the force one day, and . . . there's no cure for autism."

I said, "I know. That drives me nuts sometimes. But you got to remember it's got numerous benefits as well as down sides. It's a gift and a curse. The trick is learning how to manage it."

Then he asked me who my therapist was. I laughed and said Dad. He said, "Your father's a therapist?" I laughed harder and said no. I explained I didn't have a therapist and Mr. Monk was very lucky to have one. Not very many NT folks really understand what we're going through.

Then I laughed and said, "You know, even if you don't have AS, I guess if OCD is neurologically based, you're still not NT."

And he said, "Yeah, that's me, neurologically atypical."

"That's right! You're NAT!" I liked that, and it made him laugh.

Then he changed the subject. He asked me what I was studying today. I told that in Modern Poetry we were reading "The Waste Lands." Immediately, he started reciting "The Burial of the Dead." I was amazed! He got it exactly right! He even got the foreign language parts. I'm not sure if he pronounced them exactly right, but that was ok. I've never heard anybody go past the first line, "April is the cruelest month." After he was done, I applauded. "That was great! How did you memorize it?"

"It's no big deal," he said. "You memorized it too. I didn't hear paper rustling on your end. You weren't checking the poem to see if I was getting it right."

And I explained that I read the poem like five times last night. I was trying to force my brain to understand it. And Mr. Monk said, "Well, that's impossible. It's T.S. Eliot." It was great to hear that from a detective! Then I told him that I had to go, and we said goodbye and hung up. I'm glad we put that dream to bed. Maybe I'll sleep easier now.

* * *

A few notes to my reviewers:

Amanda-Krueger, Rach–Thank you for your support. I'm glad this format is working for you.

Kelly–Thank you so much for your encouragement. Just in case you were confused, the beginning thing was not my bio. It was my OC's bio. I do want to be a writer, but my first ambition is to be a professor. They have this motto, "Publish or Perish," so I'll get introduced to the publishing world somehow, someway. And I've been trying really hard to write a "Monk" mystery, but I haven't figured out how just yet. That's part of the reason that I'm doing this.

Unidentified Reviewer–Whoa! You nailed it! I'm glad to see somebody else believes this theory. How do you know so much about AS? And what test are you talking about? Please e-mail me, or visit my blog. I'd like to talk to you. And this was much more interesting than them meeting at lunch, wasn't it? I thought it was anyway.

zzilly14–I hope this answered your concerns about Sue's reaction to Joy's death. You're right; I should have addressed this in the last chapter. I sometimes forget that others are usually more sympathetic about this issue.


	3. Part III

November 26, 9:30 P.M.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Mood: Full

It was a great Thanksgiving. To start off, we had a wonderful parade this year. All the floats and balloons made me happy, and the anticipation of travel excited me. And I was making Grandma's roll recipe all by myself for the first time in my life. I tried so hard to make everything perfect, make every roll the same size and shape. Is it even possible? When they were done, they all looked different, so I put them in a basket and put a towel over them.

Dad called this morning just to make sure it was ok for us to come over. I remember he said, "About what time would you like us there? We wouldn't want to interrupt your favorite game . . . What?" The look on his face was priceless! He told me that he couldn't believe Mr. Monk didn't watch football. I wasn't surprised, actually. I said, "Well, somebody out there has some sense."

We got down there around 1:00. I was afraid things didn't get off to a right start with Dad and Mr. Monk. I told Dad like three times that Mr. Monk was a little bit of a hypochondriac and didn't like shaking people's hands, and guess what he did first thing? I nearly screamed at him. I didn't mean to. He just laughed and said, "Sorry. My daughter told me about you, but . . . old habits die hard, you know?" Mr. Monk just muttered, "Yeah, it's ok." He pulled his hand away and reached for a moist towlette in his jacket, but I got my hand sanitizer first. "Here. Save a tree," I said. And he said, "The tree's already dead. How can I save it?" That was good question. I gotta get him to use hand sanitizer though. I think it kills a lot more germs than a moist towlette.

He's got a nice house. He's got a lot of books, comfortable furniture, and there were pictures of his wife everywhere. Natalie was there, and this was the first time I met Julie. She was a lot younger than I thought she was. She's not even in high school yet.

We just came to give him the rolls, but they let us stay. They had a nice dinner. And I was watching Mr. Monk eat. For one thing, he had all of his courses on separate plates. I saw what he was doing. I don't like my food to touch either, especially when it's syrup touching something like bacon. Yucky. Sometimes I don't much have choice, though. I either got to scoot my food to other food or use my fingers, and I know the latter is bad etiquette. But this is what got me. He ate one course at a time! I thought I was the only person in the world who did that. I thought that was cool. And everybody talked a little bit. Dad spent a lot of time bragging about what he did, working for Industrial Lights and Magic, making special effects possible, meeting George Lucas. He sure wowed Julie. He didn't mention that he only fixed and installed equipment.

My rolls were a hit. Everybody had at least two. I told everybody the story behind them, how my mom's great-great-grandparents came over from Hungary, got their names changed and how they got last names that were unique to anybody in America so that the FBI could keep track of their descendants. My relatives never talked about "the old country." They didn't say who they were or why they came here. They wouldn't even talk about it to their children. I said that my theory was that they were members of the royal court, and they were fleeing the country after Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated. Mr. Monk thought it was more likely that they were running from the law. I guess that's true, but then why would the FBI get involved?

Afterwards, Dad wanted to talk to Mr. Monk and Natalie alone. I heard him mention Mom's name, and it sounded like Mr. Monk was talking about his wife. And I could tell at times that they were talking about me too. Dad was talking softer, but I recognized his tone. So I talked to Julie for a while. We talked about "The Simpsons" and Harry Potter. I told her a couple of jokes. She asked me what college was like. She wanted to know if it was fun. I almost wondered if I let her down.

I asked her how long her mother knew Mr. Monk. She said it had been a few years. He solved a case for them. It happened that he was looking for an assistant at the time. He had one, but she quit. After Mr. Monk solved the case, Natalie decided to work for him. Julie wasn't exactly sure why, but she thought it was because Mr. Monk reminded Natalie a little of her late husband. (I didn't know she was a widow.) Or maybe it was because he saved their pet fish. I asked Julie what exactly Natalie did for him. She said Natalie just helps him with things he has trouble doing, like driving, cooking, and socializing. Her job is to keep him cool in this world full of adverse stimuli. Man, I wish I had a Natalie, or someone like that.

Then Julie said, "Yeah, Mr. Monk is really smart, but he's also so weird." Weird. My least favorite adjective, especially when it applies to people. I was already pulling out my soap box and getting on top, and I said, "What do you mean, 'weird?'" And she said, "Well, everybody thinks so, even he does. He sees murder everywhere. Nobody dies by accident. It's always murder. Mom says if he never left his house, crime in San Francisco will take a nosedive."

And I looked down from my soapbox at her and said, "Well, that's not logical. That's not logical thinking at all. I don't know him as well as you or your mother do, but from what I know about him, crime in San Francisco would skyrocket, not nosedive. Because he wouldn't be out there to catch 'em!"

Julie was quiet. Then she said, "Yeah. Will you excuse me?" And she went down the hall.

I just barely hear a voice in the other room saying, "Did you hear that? Did you hear that? She defended me! I don't think anybody's defended me before! Oh my . . . I, I don't know what to say."

If I ever had any doubt that this friendship was mutual, that resolved it right there. We left shortly after. Natalie and Julie both said they enjoyed talking to me and Dad. All Mr. Monk said was, "Thank you for coming." But there seemed to be a look in his eye that expressed more than just courtesy. But I'm not sure. I don't make great eye contact, and I'm terrible at interpreting facial expression. I really hope I'm right, because it really made me feel good.

* * *

December 1, 7:30 P.M. 

UUUUUUUUUURGH!

Mood: Angry

I got my bill today for next semester. They're charging me twice as much as they did this semester for my room! There's no way I can afford this. Dad was furious when he heard. He called over to the billing department and found out it was because they listed my room as a private room because I don't have a roommate! How unfair is that?

Well, maybe it'll give me an excuse to move. The dorms are so noisy. I've had my eye on some apartments just off campus. If I can't pay the bill, I can't live in the dorm. Simple as that, right?

* * *

December 2, 8:45 P.M. 

To fight or to move? That is the question.

Mood: Pessimistic

I checked out some landlords in the area, and they say they're booked for the spring. Good gravy, where am I going to live?

I got a call from Mr. Monk today. I told him things weren't going well. He asked if there was any way he could help. "Not unless you're a lawyer," I said. He answered, "Well, here's the thing: I may not be a lawyer, but a private consultant and a former member of the police, I know a few things about the law. Will that help?" I sighed. "OK, maybe." Then I told him everything. He stammered for a moment. "You're, you're right. It's not fair. It's not your fault that Joy was murdered. They're charging you for your roommate's murder, even though you're innocent. Have you made that argument?"

Then I heard Natalie's voice screaming on the phone. She was pretty much ordering me to fight because this wasn't fair and all. But when I told her I wanted to move, she quieted down.

I talked to Mr. Monk again. He didn't have any ideas. He just knew that universities often pull fast ones like this. He told me if he thought of anything or if Natalie thought of anything that they could do, they'll let me know. It makes me feel a little better knowing that I got friends fighting with me.

* * *

December 15, 8:24 P.M. 

Light at the End of the Tunnel

Mood: Hopeful

It's been two weeks since he called, but Mr. Monk didn't forget me. He asked me how things were going. I told him that I've asked a few friends and people at Church for some help, and so far I'm coming up empty. He said, "You know, I was thinking. Dr. Kroger that's his therapist, wonder if he's related to Chad Kroger? has some colleagues who live close to campus. Some of them are adjunct professors. Dr. Kroger even spoke at the campus himself a few times. He had to cut some of my sessions short to go do special presentations. Maybe I could ask him tomorrow if there's anything he can do."

I said, "You know, tomorrow's Dead Day. Maybe I could go ask him myself."

He seemed rather doubtful that Dr. Kroger would see me like that, but he was willing to try. He and Natalie will be down to meet me at 7:00. Man, that's too early to wake up on Dead Day. Well, this is important. I better get to bed.

* * *

December 16, 11:30 A.M. 

A Revelation!

Mood: Contemplative

I had the midnight madness breakfast early this morning. It was just donuts and coffee, but at least it got me up. After that, I just rested on top of my bed until 6:45. Then I went down to the lobby. They were there, right on time. We walked out, and I noticed an earthworm on the sidewalk. I squealed, picked him up, and put him back on the ground. Mr. Monk was not comfortable with that. I explained that the poor guy was losing all the moisture in his skin, and he would die before he reached the end of the sidewalk. Natalie, for once, knew where I was coming from. "It's called 'compassion, '" she told him. He still looked at me odd, so I got out my hand sanitizer and scrubbed my hands really well.

I got to say, Mr. Monk was one of the biggest backseat drivers I've ever seen. He kept screaming traffic regulations, and he asked about twenty times if we were wearing our seatbelts. I'm not judging him because sometimes I'm pretty bad at that myself ("Dad, the speed limit's 60. You're not going 60. Dad, I don't know where we are! This isn't the way!" and then he yells at me that he knows what he's doing). It's just that I was trying to study for my poetry exam. The first two parts are matching. First you got to match poet to poem, then you got to match content to poem. Every poem we studied this semester is fair game. So after about ten minutes of it, I told him to quiet down. I explained why, and Natalie told Mr. Monk to help me. So I handed him my syllabus. He must not have even looked at it for two seconds, and he didn't ask for my textbook. He just rattled off poem titles and lines from poems. I tried my best to keep up. A couple of times he asked about poems we didn't study. Guess he got too caught up in it. Well, at least he wasn't screaming anymore.

I think he really cared. I started studying on my own when we got to the clinic, and he just said quietly to me, "You'll do fine." I explained that there was still an essay portion, and I had to read my notes for that. So he left me alone

Dr. Kroger had a cool office. It had a couch, of course, and a couple of armchairs. But the thing that I liked the best was that right outside his window was a huge waterfall. I couldn't stop staring at it. I can't remember much about the meeting because I was so entranced by those waters. But there is one thing I remember. I thought of a really good idea. I'm not going to say what it is right away because I'm not sure if it'll pan out, but I'll say this. If it'll work, it might solve my problem.

* * *

Video Tape AM041.1 (excerpt) 

Dr. Charles Kroger

9:00 A. M., December 16, 20–

Adrian brought his college friend Sue with him today. Before the session, he apologized for causing an unusual situation, but they felt I could help them with a desperate situation. I was interested in talking to her anyway, since he has told me that she has Asperger's Syndrome. Upon entering the room, Sue went to the window and stared at the waterfall outside.

"Wow. That is . . . that is beautiful!"

"Yeah. Some of my clients enjoy that as well. It's calming, soothing."

"Does it make rainbows late in the day, when the sun hits it right?"

"No, it's rather shady here."

"Would you, would you mind too terribly if I watch that instead of you?"

"If it makes you more comfortable, go ahead." She grabbed an armchair, scooted it closer to the window, and stared. "So, Adrian tells me you have Asperger's."

"Adrian? Who's Adrian?"

"This is Adrian, right here. Did you not know that?"

Sue turns around to Adrian. "Your name is Adrian?"

He shrugs and nods.

"I thought that was a girl's name."

"It's spelled differently."

"Oh. You learn something new every day. It must be hard."

"Sometimes."

"But I can sympathize, sort of. I can't tell you how sick I am of 'A Boy Name Sue.'" (a brief chuckle here) "I'm sorry. What was it you asked me again, Doctor?"

"I was just wondering about your Asperger's. When were you diagnosed?"

"I was diagnosed at five with PDD-NOS."

"I'm sorry, what's that?"

"Pervasive Developmental Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. They call it the catch-all category. Then I was diagnosed with AS my senior year of high school."

"Interesting. I'm not an expert on the autism spectrum, but I want to learn more. I'm interested in learning what you can tell me."

"OK."

Then I spoke with Adrian about his recent events. Near the middle of our session, he explained the situation. Sue is looking for a new place to live, and since she is not currently able to drive, she needs a place close to campus or at least living with someone who won't mind providing her transportation.

"Has she told you why she wants to move?"

"Well, they're charging her too much for her dorm. Because of her roommate's death, they made it into a private room."

"That's not fair."

"No, it's not, but she'd rather move than fight it."

"How come?"

"Obviously because she's not satisfied with the dorms."

"Hey, Sue?"

Sue did not immediately respond.

Adrian tried, "Sue!"

Sue jumps in her chair. "Oh! I'm sorry. I, I kinda forgot where I was."

"We were just wondering why you want to move."

"Oh, have I not told you? It's so noisy over there. People next door keep playing loud music, and everybody was screaming. And at night it's very evident that people aren't respecting the dry campus policy. I'm working on a thesis next semester. I can't work in these conditions!"

I said, "Oh, a thesis! How ambitious! That's wonderful! What's it about?"

"It's a character analysis of four characters: Auguste Dupin from Poe's short detective fiction, Phileas Fogg from Around the World in 80 Days, Alice from Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, and Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, two of those are right up Adrian's alley. So what's the connection, besides that they're all from the nineteenth century?"

"I believe they all had AS. I want to analyze, compare, and discuss the history behind them. My argument is that they were so popular because that time period had a fascination with autism, and the people didn't even realize it."

"Sounds intriguing. I think I'd like to read that."

"Thank you."

"Alright, back to question now. Who would you like to live with?"

"Someone who's quiet and respects my need for privacy. Someone who will understand . . . me." Sue turns around in her seat and looks at us. "Hey. I think I know a good candidate."

"Who?"

She points to Adrian. "You!"

"Me?"

(Tape runs out)

* * *

Rach–Actually, that was a real dream I had. And yes, Monk was in it. I'm not sure if Natalie was though. And I added in the scene with the Golden Gate Bridge. I thought that would make the interpretation clearer. 


	4. Part IV

Video Tape AM041.2

I apologize that I did not switch the tapes out and thus had to interrupt Adrian's session. I was so taken aback by his visitor, I forgot to change Harold's tape, and our session did run long that day. As I was putting a fresh tape in, Sue argued to Adrian all the reasons that could persuade him to consider her as a tenant, which will be listed again momentarily. He responded about four or five times, and his argument was always the same.

"I'm telling you, Sue, you don't know what you're asking."

"Yes I do! Haven't you been listening? I thought this through. It'll be perfect."

At this point, I reentered the room. "Uh, hey Sue, would you mind going outside for a while?"

She looked at me suspiciously. "Why?"

"Well . . . don't be offended, but this is a big decision. From my experience with Adrian, it's best for us to discuss such decisions alone. Here, just down the hall and to your right, there's a door to the outside there. You can see that waterfall up close."

"Cool! Ok." She got up from her chair and began to leave but first looked at Adrian. "Just think about it, ok? Take all the time you need."

As she exited the room, Adrian smiled at me and shook his head. "What did I tell you about her? So bright, and yet so naive."

"Go for it."

"OK. I'm getting a little old. Maybe my hearing's not as good as it used to be. Did you just say, 'Go for it' or 'No, don't . . . do it'?"

I gave him an "I'm-not-falling-for-that-one" look. Adrian looked defeated and threw his hands in the air. "It was worth a shot."

"Adrian, it's not unheard of for people your age to take in a college student in need, just to help her get back on her feet. It can be a very enriching experience for you, if she's devoted to her studies. If Sue were a party student, I would reconsider her offer. But since she's very serious about her work, I think this could be a great thing. Think of it this way. At her age, she needs to feel a sense of independence. At your age, you need to feel a sense of authority. And both of you need to feel respect and acceptance. So you see, this can be mutually beneficial."

"Yeah, she was saying the same thing. She gave a very compelling, convincing argument." With a nervous laugh, he added, "Of course, what else should I expect from an English major?"

"Right."

"But there is a flaw in her argument. She only gave me pros. She didn't even consider any cons, and in my mind, the cons greatly outweigh the pros."

"Well, what pros did she provide you?"

"She realizes that I would probably be a 'harsh taskmaster,' but she's a stickler for following rules, and she'd have more respect for my needs than anyone else would. She'd be out of the way most of the time. She's a very modest girl, so she won't do anything to disturb me. She's very neat and organized. She can clean. She can cook. She'll give Natalie a little bit of a break. She's willing to give me a listening ear if I will do the same for her. And she'll pay me."

"She's will?"

"That's right. She said that as a tenant, she'd pay me, her landlord, rent and a percentage of my utilities. And she'd sweep my deck for free."

"Sweep your deck?"

"Yeah, which would be helpful if I actually had a deck."

"Very good, and what are the cons, as you perceive them?"

"The con is it's IMPOSSIBLE!"

"Calm down, Adrian. Please, elaborate for me."

"W-w-well . . . well . . . she . . . sh . . . I CAN'T! You know I can't! We've been through this again and again!"

"Adrian . . ."

"One person's enough. I can't handle two! Remember Tommy? You wouldn't let me have Tommy!"

"Adrian, Tommy was two years old. Sue's gotta be somewhere in her twenties."

"23, actually. She told me."

"It's not a matter of you taking care of her. She can look after herself."

"Well, that's not the only thing, though. Sue's a great girl, a smart girl, and I have a lot of respect for her ambition, and I appreciate her concern for me, but I really don't think we could get along for that long."

"Why not?"

"She just . . . she doesn't have the level of concern for . . . " He gestured out the window where Sue was dancing around the waterfall while reading a book. "Well, just look at her. She's more nature-oriented. She likes walking in redwood forests, sitting on logs, playing in waterfalls. This morning she picked an earthworm of the sidewalk. She said it would die of dehydration if she didn't return it to the soil. That was very thoughtful and everything, but when she handed me her syllabus to help her study for her poetry exam, it felt all slimy in my hands. I'm not sure if it was the earthworm slime or . . ." (He glanced out the window at Sue and said quietly) "or the residue from her hand sanitizer."

"She uses hand sanitizer instead of moist towlettes?"

"Yeah. I tried it once. It feels so filmy. It's more like lotion. I don't like lotion. It doesn't make me feel any cleaner."

"You know, if that's a problem, you need to talk to her about that. Maybe she doesn't understand that part of your condition."

"No, she does. She got after her father for shaking my hand. I think that's why she uses hand sanitizer so much."

"Well, you just need to be clearer. She specifically said that she'd make you her landlord?"

"Yes."

"Well, that puts you at advantage. If things don't go well, if she disregards your rules, you say, 'Sue, I don't think this is working out. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to find some other place to live.' And you give her back her security deposit."

"You're saying I can throw her out?"

"Sure. You'll have that right. Of course, I would only reserve that power if it really gets unbearable. And remember, she's got her own needs. It's up to you to be sympathetic to those needs. Otherwise, she'll feel like this is only going one way. If you do this right, you might fulfill her dream. You remember, the bridge?"

Adrian looked distracted.

"What's wrong?"

"I . . . I only have one bathroom."

"Negotiate."

Long pause. "OK."

"You'll try it?"

"I'll think about thinking about trying it."

"Maybe a month will be a good indicator."

"I don't think it'll take that long to reach a decision."

"No, I mean for Sue."

"Oh! Maybe." Adrian looked out the window again. "What if something happens to me?"

"I don't she'll do anything deliberately to–"

"No, I mean, what if when I'm working, something happens to me? What then?"

"You'll have to discuss that. You'll devise an emergency plan together. If worse came to worst, she could probably contact her family to take her away. But we don't want to think about worst case scenarios right now, ok?"

"OK."

"Let me know when you make a decision."

"Sure."

(End Tape AM041)

December 21, 9:32 P.M.

Merry Early Christmas!

Mood: Touched

It's so nice to be out of school. Now we all wait anxiously for my grades. I don't expect any problems.

We're leaving for Texas tomorrow, so Dad and I went down tonight to Mr. Monk's to spread some holiday cheer. I spent all day making "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" Cookies and marshmallow snowmen. I already had presents picked out, and Dad wrapped them for me.

Well, Mr. Monk could tell it was a book. I wasn't surprised. You can't disguise that kind of thing from a detective. But I dared him to tell me what kind of book it was. He had three guesses: a religious text, an anthology, or one of my textbooks. He was right, of course. It was the complete works of O. Henry. I explained that he was my favorite short story writer, and some of the things Mr. Monk told me about reminded me of O. Henry's short stories. I challenged Mr. Monk to find out the ironic twists before he got to them. I convinced him to read "Gift of the Magi" out loud, even though he said that he read that one before, and he knew how it ended. I liked the way he read it.

Of course, I didn't leave Natalie and Julie out. I gave Natalie some scented candles ('cause I can tell that working with Mr. Monk all the time really makes her tense), and I got Julie a book of little known Harry Potter facts. It's mostly about the origins of a lot of the characters' names and stuff. She was excited. And I gave everybody their own little snowman. Natalie thought it was the most darling thing in the world, and she wouldn't eat it. She asked me how I put it together. When I told her that water was like marshmallow glue, she was amazed. She was also impressed with the Christmas cookies. I told her all it was was Ritz crackers, almond bark, and peanut butter, really easy stuff to make. Julie was the only one who ate one. She liked it. I was trying to encourage Mr. Monk to share them with the rest of his police department and with Dr. Kroger. I was surprised; he told me Dr. Kroger was Jewish. I couldn't tell. I joked and said he could tell him it's manna. Then I shrugged and said, "Well, Irving Berlin was Jewish, and he wrote 'White Christmas.'" He could still give Dr. Kroger the snowman because that's more of a winter thing than a Christmas thing. It's just to say thanks for helping me through some of my thoughts.

Oh, and Natalie got me a gift. It was some nice hand lotion. It's jasmine scented, and it's all glittery. I love jasmine. I'm sure I'll get this used up. And then, before we left, Mr. Monk ran back to his study, and he did the sweetest thing. He gave me his copy of Sherlock Holmes mysteries. I did not want to take it. It had too much sentimental value. He had notes in the margins, some weren't in his perfect handwriting (maybe they were his wife's!). But every time I tried to give it back, he was adamant that I keep it. He said I needed it more than he did because of my thesis. He read it cover to cover dozens of times, and he knew every word. Maybe he just wants me to borrow it. I'll take the best care of it that I can. I can't believe that he did that for me. I am overwhelmed with emotion. I wanted so badly to give him a hug, but I knew he wouldn't want that.

January 5, 8:22 P.M.

I Got an Apartment!

Mood: Excited

Alright, it's time to tell you people. I got this idea a few weeks ago that maybe I could move in with Mr. Monk. I thought it would really work out nicely, but I was very worried that he would put his foot down and say no. He seemed very pensive about the whole deal. But today he called me and asked me to come over to his apartment. He said that he discussed with his landlord, and though he wasn't particularly happy, he allowed it. And Mr. Monk said he'd let me stay, if I observed his house rules.

–Everything has to be straight, even, balanced, organized, clean, and overall neat at all times, no exceptions, no questions asked. (Well, that's a no-brainer.)

–There are only certain times that I can use the bathroom in a day, for any use. And every time I'm in there, I have to keep the door locked, even if I'm just brushing my teeth. The quicker, the better; the cleaner, the better.

–He gave me a list of food he likes. He has a pretty strict menu. For instance, he has pot pies every Tuesday.

–Everything I handle of his I have to handle with a moist towlette. I don't know if just having my hand sanitized 24-7 will be enough.

–He's putting me in his study, but sometimes he needs to use it to think. So he wants me to stay decent in there as much as possible. He said it would be best for both of us if I stayed away from his bedroom.

Well, those are some pretty strange rules. I can understand why they're so strict, but I am a little worried that I may not be able to deliver. If I drop a plate, I'll scratch his linoleum and miss a few shards when I'm cleaning it up and I'll get him upset. But he said he'll be easy on me. He understands I have problems too, and he'll try to be lenient.

It ended kinda funnily. I went ahead and signed an agreement. I knew I could trust him. Then I said, "Well, I guess we ought to seal this somehow." I knew he wouldn't want me to shake his hand. He'd grab one of his moist towlettes and wipe his hand immediately. He wouldn't want me to hug him either or give him a high-five. So I finally just got some hand sanitizer, scrubbed it in real good, got into every crevice. Then I extended it out for him to shake. He took my hand then immediately let go and grabbed a wipe. I said, "What are you doing? I just killed 99.9 of the germs on my hand." And he said, "Yeah, I know, and I appreciate it. I'm just getting that last tenth of a percent." I couldn't stop myself from laughing. I laughed harder when I thought about it again later. Last tenth of a percent. That was great.

Natalie then offered to help in any way that Mr. Monk couldn't. I asked her if it was ok if she could give me transportation. I wanted to lessen it; I told her that she could at least take me to a bus stop instead of taking me to school. But she seemed fine with it. She said the campus was on the way to Julie's school. I offered to pay her gas bill. She said Mr. Monk pays it. So I offered to pay 10. She agreed with that.

Before I left, I asked Mr. Monk out of curiosity what made him decide. This was sweet; he told me he had a dream about me. I said I thought he had dreams about his wife. He said she was there too, but so was I. He didn't tell me the details, but he said even though Dr. Kroger, Natalie, and the captain all tried to talk him into it, the wife got the last word. He told me the only reason he was hesitant was because he had an experience taking care of a two-year-old boy. He was an orphaned toddler who was involved in a case. He was taken away from his foster parents, and Mr. Monk offered to look after him. The boy already found a connection with Mr. Monk; he even learned his name. As they spent time together, the boy starting emulating Mr. Monk's habits. Mr. Monk said those were the happiest two days of his life since his wife's death. He even thought adopting the boy, but he realized that he couldn't take care of the boy by himself. And he said, "So that was the thing, you see. I just didn't want to get my hopes up." I told him I wouldn't let him down. When I got away, though, I cried a little bit. It just really touched me.

Anyway, we move in next weekend. I can't wait!

Thanks for the response from all of my reviewers. I'm afraid this is going to be it for a little while. I got to turn my attention to writing a thesis. Hopefully the new season of "Monk" will be on when I'm done so I'll have more ideas.


	5. Part V

January 10, 8:25 P. M.

Settled In

Mood: Sore

Well, today was the big day. After Church, Dad and I had lunch and finished packing up. Then we headed down. On the way there, Dad was really serious. He said, "Honey, there's something about Mr. Monk that I don't think you understand."

"I understand quite a bit," I said. "I know he has OCD and possibly AS, like I do. I know he won't be completely comfortable with me around, but I'm going to do my best–"

And he said, "No. Honey, he's a very sad man. He carries a lot of hurt around. It almost spills out of him. His emotions are very fragile. "

"I know he's sad because he lost his wife, but most of the time he acts OK. He's not depressed is he?"

"He might be. Look, I know you like to ask questions about your mother, and I answer them for you because she was your mother and you need to know about her. But I wouldn't question Mr. Monk about his wife just because you're curious. There's no reason to get him upset. And just be good to him. Treat him with special care."

All I could think of to say was, "I'll try." I haven't really thought of him that way. Man, that seems to make things harder.

This move took a long time. I was hoping to at least make it to evening services. I knew it would take all afternoon, but I didn't have a lot of stuff. Everybody was there to help. It should have taken a few hours. I think it took so long because Mr. Monk kept moving stuff around. We had to pick up the bed twenty times to get it completely straight and centered in the study. My arms feel like they're going to fall off! But I didn't complain. I didn't want to get off to a bad start with my host.

So we were finished around 6:30 or so. Dad gave me a big hug and told me to call every day. I told him I would. "Take good care of him," he whispered to me.

"I'll do my best," I said.

Then he patted Mr. Monk on the shoulder and said, "Take good care of her."

He nodded and said, "OK." As soon as Dad walked out the door, Mr. Monk sighed, looked at me and said, "So . . . it begins."

"Yeah, it does. I'm hungry, how about you?"

And Natalie offered to get me something, her treat. I tried to refuse, but she insisted. She said, "It's been a long day for you. It's the least I can do."

"How about a sub sandwich? Does that sound good?"

Mr. Monk shrugged. I asked for a club, no onions, peppers, or condiments, on wheat bread with a Dr. Pepper and a small bag of Cheetos. Mr. Monk asked for a meatball sandwich with no cheese. Maybe he's a little bit of a cheapskate. Natalie got it for us, and it was so good! I watched "King of the Hill" while I was eating. Oh, that Dale Gribble cracks me up! I invited Mr. Monk to join me, but he wasn't interested.

Now, I'm writing my blog entry, so the Internet works. Things will probably be good. Guess I'll know tomorrow.

* * *

January 11, 9:34 P.M. 

First Day

Mood: Content

I didn't have a good night last night. I guess I should have expected. Maybe I should have had milk instead of Dr. Pepper, but Mr. Monk has a thing about milk. I don't get it. He's a hypochondriac. Shouldn't he be more afraid of osteoporosis? I would be; of course, I'm a woman and at greater risk. Oh well. Maybe it'll give me a good excuse to try the GF/CF diet. I just got to find some way to get some calcium!

So this morning I made myself an extra cup of coffee. As I was fixing breakfast, Mr. Monk came in. I greeted him with a "Good morning!" but he said, "I'm sorry you didn't sleep well last night."

I said, "Don't be. It's not your fault."

He looked a little surprised, and he said, "It's not?"

I said, "No. The first night's always the hardest for sleeping when I'm in a new place. It'll take a while, but I'll get used to it. Every once in a while, I'll have a sleepless night for no reason, but I'll deal with that when it happens. Wait a minute. Did you think you were keeping me up?"

"Well, I was straightening things a little this morning, vacuuming, that sort of thing."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I didn't hear it."

"Yes, your fan blocks out sound and lulls you to sleep."

"Exactly. It's a habit I developed in the dorm. Now, the light coming under the crack in the door, that might have contributed. I'm very sensitive to light. I can't sleep if there's any light in the room."

"I'm sorry."

"I told you, it's not your fault."

"Right, OK."

I offered to fix his coffee for him, but he wanted to fix it himself. Well, my tastes are particular too. I made waffles, probably my favorite breakfast. I dropped one dripping with syrup on the floor. Mr. Monk and I groaned simultaneously. I stopped what I was doing and tried to clean it up, and I apologized up and down. Mr. Monk just waved his hand and said, "It's not your fault."

"Yes it was. Nobody else is here dropping waffles."

"It's not your fault. It's sleep deprivation and dyspraxia working together. You can't be held responsible. You are what you are."

"And that's all that I . . . 'are,' I guess," I added laughing. So I thanked him and then realized time was getting away from me. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, brushed my hair, and then Natalie came to take me to school.

I had three classes today: Literary Theory (yuck), and English Novel. It was just basically handing out the syllabus and icebreaker type stuff. I got most of my books. I have a lot of books this time because of English Novel. I held off on some of them because I'm sure I remember shelving them in the library. I started reading "Robinson Crusoe" for class while I ate lunch. Then I had to work at the library until night. There weren't any books to shelve yet, so I spent my time greeting people as they came in and handing out bookmarks. I hope this doesn't go on much longer. My legs and feet are sore from standing so long, and some people are so rude.

Then I had Senior Seminar around 6:00. It's a long class, but it only meets once a week. It's required for graduation. But it looks interesting. We're studying romantic literature.

Natalie picked me up at 8:00. I told her about my day on the way back, but she didn't talk about hers. Mr. Monk was in the living room, and he looked like he didn't want to be disturbed. He's probably thinking about his latest case. So I heated up a TV dinner, watched "The Simpsons," fixed some Sleepy Time Tea, and worked on my blog entry.

I think today was a good start.

* * *

January 12, 10:12 P.M. 

Really My Chance to Shine

Mood: Pleased

First thing I said when I saw Mr. Monk was, "You'll be happy to know that I slept a lot better last night. Sleepy Time Tea, it works wonders."

He just said, "Glad to hear it."

I had some dry cereal and a banana. I finished getting ready, and I started on the chicken. Mr. Monk was confused that I was starting on supper in the morning. I don't think he's seen a Crock Pot before. You know, something really funny happened this morning, and for some reason I can't remember what it was. My memories better than this. Huh.

Today wasn't as long. I had a couple of classes, but I didn't have to work at the library. I had Death and Dying today, which is actually very interesting, and Creative Writing (finally!). I had lunch, and I came back, finished supper, and then watched TV and worked on homework while I waited for everybody to come back.

Natalie said it smelled very good. I was glad she thought so. Mr. Monk came in, and he looked confused. I explained to him that he asked for chicken pot pie, so I fixed chicken in the Crock Pot and pie–apple pie. I also fixed some mixed vegetables, crescent rolls, and sweet tea. I invited Natalie and Julie at least for a piece of pie. Julie was more than willing. Natalie needed more convincing, but she stayed. She complemented me most about the meal. It was all, "Wow, this is delicious. And you fixed this in a Crock Pot? I must have your recipe."

Mr. Monk wasn't talking much, and neither was Julie. I guess as the hostess, I needed to break the ice. So I said to Julie, "You're very quiet."

She answered, "I'm very hungry!"

That was going nowhere, so I said to Mr. Monk, "How was your day?"

He answered, "Do you really want to know?"

I said, "Yeah. This is how Dad and I socialize. We talk about our day over supper. I don't know half of the stuff he says. It's all techno mumbo-jumbo, but I still listen and respond. Dad worries that if I don't use these skills, I might lose them."

So he started talking about this case. A preacher was stabbed with a crucifix. All the evidence points to the secretary, but she's denying any of it. She's genuinely distressed, saying repeatedly that she'd never kill God's servant. Mr. Monk wondered if somehow she didn't know that she murdered him. He actually recognized her. She goes to the same institute he goes to when he's seeing Dr. Kroger. But she's not one of Dr. Kroger's patients. She won't tell Mr. Monk who she goes to see or why, saying that violates her privacy as a patient. But he said he's seen her before and after she goes to see her therapist, and she never acts the same.

I interjected, "Oh, you think she might have D.I.D.?"

He looked at me weird and said, "D.I.D.?"

"Dissociative Identity Disorder, formerly known as Multiple Personality Syndrome. It would make sense because when the more dominant personality switches to the lesser dominant, they don't remember what happened."

Mr. Monk was just listening to me, and he said, "I didn't even think of that. You're right, that is possible. It's a long shot. People who really have multiple personalities are rare. I've seen several criminals who try to fake having multiple personalities. But it could happen. I mean, people like you and me are rare too, right?" We all chuckled at that.

Then I asked what his theory was. He told me he thought she was hypnotized. I said, "Well, I know that's impossible. I've been to a couple of hypnotists' shows, and one of the first things they say is that you can't do anything against your moral code when you're under hypnosis. So unless she's really antisocial . . . well, maybe that's not impossible either. She's a secretary, after all."

I think everybody liked my food. Julie loved the pie and the crescent rolls. Natalie told me how impressed she was with my cooking abilities. But Mr. Monk didn't say anything. So after Natalie and Julie left, I started cleaning up and doing the dishes. Mr. Monk came in, and I asked him what he thought. He said, "It was good, but I think you need to know that this wasn't what I meant."

I told him, "I know what chicken pot pie really is. Dad and I used to have pot pies every Sunday for lunch. It's a low budget food. I was trying to be cute. Maybe I should have told you what I was doing, but I also wanted to surprise you. I wanted to thank you for doing this for me, and the best way to thank someone is with an extra-special dinner. You know what they say, 'A way to a man's heart is through his stomach.'"

"Well, I guess I can appreciate that," was all he said. I think he was somewhat upset that his routine was disrupted. I'll be more mindful about that in the future.

* * *

Video Tape AM 055 (excerpt, edited to protect anonymity) 

Dr. Charles Kroger

9:00 A.M. January 14, 20–

The first thing I felt I needed to address with Adrian was how life was going with his new tenant.

"So, how long has it been? It is a week already?"

"Four days. Well, technically three and a half, and this morning."

"Has it been a difficult adjustment?"

"Well, it hasn't been easy, but . . . I think I'm ok."

"What about Sue?"

"She had trouble sleeping at the beginning, but she's doing better. She hasn't been complaining."

"And what do you think about her, now that your living with her?"

"Well, she's a woman of her word. I admire that. She's everything she said she'd be."

"Is she?"

"She said she'd be out of the way. I hardly ever see her. She said she'd be quiet. She almost never talks. Usually she's watching TV or on her computer. She said she'd be neat, clean, and a good cook, and she's been all of those. She's been fairly good at following my rules. She's a bit absent-minded at times, but we can't all be perfect."

"Absent-minded?"

"Well, this morning, she got a coffee mug down and put it on the stove. Then she started fixing her breakfast of peanut butter toast. She put the plate down at her spot, and then she turned around and got this look of complete shock on her face. I knew what she was thinking, 'Where'd my coffee mug go?' She looked next to the coffee maker, not there. Next to the toaster, no coffee mug. She turned back to her spot at the dining table, not there either. She started pacing in the kitchen, muttering to herself, 'Coffee mug, coffee mug, where'd it go? I know I got one down . . . did I?' Finally, she saw it on the stove, and she hit her forehead and yelled, 'Oh yeah, that's right, I put it here!'"

"So why didn't you help her?"

"Well, I did try to gesture with my head, but I don't think she saw. She was embarrassed that I was watching her. She said to me when she found the cup, 'I feel so stupid now. I bet you have no idea what that's like.'"

"And what did you say?"

"I couldn't think of the right thing to say, so I just said, 'It could be worse.' That satisfied her, I think. She said, 'Yeah,' and that was it."

"OK. Well, things do sound good. Are you surprised?"

"I am quite a bit surprised, actually. You know, there is something unusual about her."

"I imagine there's a lot unusual about her. She's autist–"

"Yes, I know, but there's this one thing that really puzzles me. Sue may be the first person I've ever known who's never questioned me."

"Never questioned you? What do you mean? She's never asked you a question?"

"No, that's not what I mean. See, well you know I said earlier that she wasn't sleeping well. The first morning I saw her, I could tell that she didn't have a good night's sleep. For one thing, she made half a pot of coffee, which caused me to assume that she needed more than one cup. For another thing, she looked abnormally tired. She looked like she didn't get to stage three sleep. So I just said right away, 'I'm sorry you didn't sleep well last night.' Now, most people, when I say something like that balk at me for a second then say, 'Monk, how did you know that?'"

"Right."

"Well, all she said was, 'Don't be. It's not your fault.' She never asked me how I figured it out."

"Did you want her to?"

"Well . . . maybe. It's just that I've gotten used to it by now."

"Autistic people do tend to take things at face value. I've heard that many don't immediately get punch lines of jokes. Some even take them literally. Maybe it just didn't occur to her that what you said was out of the ordinary."

"Maybe. Or maybe she knew how I figured it out. I can tell that she notices things."

"What kind of things?"

"Well, like the other day. I came into the kitchen, and she was laughing. She was laughing very, very hard, and she wouldn't stop. She fell into the counter and laughed. Naturally, I asked her what's so funny. She stopped laughing and she said, 'Well, I didn't expect this from you. You must be a Simon and Garfunkle fan."

"That was out of the blue."

"You'd think that. I had a hunch of what she was talking about, but I asked. She said, 'I was just looking at your spice rack here. It's all alphabetized except for these last three–sage, rose–'"

"Rosemary and thyme."

"Yes. And she said, 'So are you going to Scarborough Fair for some parsley?"

I laughed, "That was clever."

"Yeah, it was. I didn't tell her that Trudy did that. It was her spice rack; I never bothered it. But you know, I've had several people who've seen my kitchen. Nobody's brought that up. Nobody noticed it."

"Or perhaps nobody thought it was important enough to mention. Nobody thought something like that was funny. This whole incident taught you a lot about her, didn't it?"

"Yeah, it did."

"You might have learned more if you asked her more questions. Why don't you try to take some time to talk to her? I think she'd probably love to take a walk, and you like to take a walk every once in a while. Maybe that'll be a good time to get to know Sue."

"But when I walk, I–"

"I know, and I'm sure she'll understand those unexplained compulsions. But when you're not tapping parking meters and assigning them a number, why don't you ask her why she's not questioning you, or how she's liking living in your apartment, or what she's studying? You can do that, can't you?"

"I'll try."

"Good. Now, is there anything you want to talk about?"

"Oh yes, there is one thing. I need an expert's opinion. There's a psychological matter I need to understand for one of my cases."

"Well sure, I'd be happy to help. What do you need to know?"

"What do you know about hip–?" Adrian suddenly pauses and looks out the window.

"Is there something wrong?" No response. "Did you just hiccup? I'll get you some water."

As I get up, without looking at me, Adrian replies, "Dissociative Identity Disorder."

I take my seat again. "Excuse me?"

"D.I.D.? Formally known as multiple personality?"

"Oh, yes. Some of us still call it multiple personality. It was just recently changed in the DSM-IV. Old habits are hard to break, you know. Well, I've studied it. I've never met anyone with multiple personalities, and frankly I question that diagnosis sometimes. But I know some psychologists that say they have worked with multiple personality cases."

"That would be great, thank you."

"Now, why do you ask? Do you have a suspect with multiple personalities?"

"It's a theory." He chuckles. "It's kinda silly, isn't it? I mean, what are the chances? It's like something Lieutenant Disher would think up."

"Did Randy think that?"

Adrian stops laughing. "No." He paused. "What do you know about hypnosis?"

"Oh, that was what you almost said earlier, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"W-why did you say dissociative identity disorder first?"

"I'm not sure."

He looked genuine about that, so I pressed on. "I did study hypnosis rather extensively in college. It was a curiosity of mine. I've never used it, though. I don't think it's reliable. In my opinion, it doesn't bring about life-long changes, and the things people say in a hypnotized state aren't always real. Why?"

"It's another working theory. There was this preacher who was stabbed. There's blood everywhere in the secretary's office, but she denies any involvement. I think that she was in some other mental state. I've seen her here. She always gets on the elevator."

"You know, I think there's a psychologist here that uses hypnotism, Dr. (last name deleted). Maybe you can talk to him. He keeps asserting that his ability to mesmerize is a gift from God."

A look of intrigue crossed Adrian's face.

* * *

End Tape AM 055 

January 14, 9:55

I Solved a Mystery!

Mood: Proud

Well, this evening, I was planning on doing some channel surfing and studying, but around 7:00 or so Mr. Monk came in and put on his coat (I don't know why, it wasn't all that cold out). "I'm going to take a walk," he announced.

"Going anywhere in particular?"

"Nah. Just counting telephone poles and parking meters."

"Making sure that they're all still there?"

"Don't ask me to explain it. I don't understand why I have to do it myself."

"Oh, I gotcha. OK, have fun."

He nearly walked out the door, but then he turned back and asked, "Hey, do you want to come?"

I sat there for a moment and wondered if there was anything I had to do or watch, but I couldn't think of anything. I decided that it would probably be good to get some exercise anyway. I was only worried about going into the big city, but I was trustful that Mr. Monk would protect me. So I said, "OK."

It was a nice walk, but Mr. Monk walked very fast. I ask him twice to slow down. He tried to oblige, but then he got back in the rhythm of counting his telephone poles and sped up again. So I caught up to him and said, "Alright, mister. This isn't working. We gotta link elbows."

He looked like I just asked him to jump off a cliff. "Link elbows?"

"It's either that or hold hands. I believe you'd think this the lesser of two evils."

"Well, why would we have to do either?"

"Because you're walking too fast, and I'm a defenseless girl in a big city, and I don't want to get abducted or kidnaped or raped or mugged."

"Alright then. Get on the left. No, the other left." I put my arm very carefully in his, trying hard not to touch him. All the same, he took a huge breath before starting again. We went a lot slower. He didn't look comfortable. "Do you feel better?"

"Yeah. I know you won't let anybody get me."

"No, of course not."

"I bet there are some people who are scared of you."

"Maybe. Not very many, though." He looked off in the distance, and then he said, "Well, you'll be interested to know that we both were right."

"About what?"

"The murder I was telling you about, with the priest."

"Oh. So, the secretary was both hypnotized and in an alternate personality?"

"Yeah. See, here's what happened." He explained that the secretary was going to a psychologist to help her control her weight. He used hypnotism on her, but when she was under that state, she developed another personality. According to the psychologist's notes, it was an aggressive and hostile side of her that called itself Lucifer. This psychologist had regular appointments with her, but he had a second agenda. He channeled Lucifer's anger toward her church. This psychologist was rather fanatical.

"So, what happens now? I mean, one part of her will never really know or understand that she killed a man. She's guilty and innocent at the same time. What do you do?"

"She's getting rehabilitation therapy. The doctor was arrested. But you know, if you didn't think of multiple personalities, he might have gotten off."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we probably would have questioned him, but he couldn't be found liable because a person under hypnotism can't do anything against their moral code. So we would assumed that she was just a cold-blooded killer and sent her to jail."

"But what does that have to do with me?"

"Sue, I would never have considered D.I.D., and I don't know anyone who would. It's just too rare."

"Well, even when I said it, it didn't sound plausible. But it was an option, wasn't it? Look, this was a fluke. I can't solve mysteries. I can't even solve Encyclopedia Brown." He looked at me strangely. "I know, that's not your generation. It was a series of little kiddie mysteries that you would find laughable."

"Don't be down on yourself. I think you're pretty good."

I was speechless. I think I said "Thank you" eventually, but I was reeling. Coming from him, that's high praise.

Monker–Happy Belated Birthday. I was hoping to be done with my thesis, but I'm still working on it. I'm trying to find time to write for fun, though.


End file.
